


In Sickness...

by wesleyfanfiction_archivist



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-18
Updated: 2004-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-30 20:49:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6439939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleyfanfiction_archivist/pseuds/wesleyfanfiction_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AtS S5.  Sometimes it's the people you least expect who help you the most.  Spike and Wes exchange sympathy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Sickness...

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [WesleyFanfiction.net](http://fanlore.org/wiki/WesleyFanFiction.Net). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [WesleyFanfiction.net collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/wesleyfanfiction/profile).

Wesley wakes from a fitful night's sleep to find himself stiff and sore. This, in and of itself, is not an uncommon occurrence, so it's not until he stands up that the reason for his aches and pains becomes clear to him. Swaying severely as he fights the urge to either black out or throw up, he finally manages to stagger over to an armchair and collapse into it. When he can once again form coherent thought, he swears in an impressive array of languages. Then he inches his way back to the bed, picks up the phone, and dials Wolfram & Hart. 

He cuts off the cheerful voice in his ear almost as soon as she begins to speak. "Harmony. *Harmony*. Oh, do be quiet already. It's Wesley." At her next words, he closes his eyes. He can hear the blood pounding in his head. "Wyndham-Pryce, Harmony! Listen to me carefully. I have the flu. You have to tell Angel I won't be in today. Probably not tomorrow either. Do you have that? Shall I say it again?" He pauses to listen, and sighs. "No, of course I don't think you're stupid." *I bloody well know it*. "No. No! Don't put me on hold for him. I'm sick. I'm going back to bed. He can call me if he absolutely must. Now, goodbye." He hangs up on her before she can say another word.

He lays back for a moment, wearied beyond belief by the brief activity, though he thinks that may have less to do with the flu than with Harmony. After a bit, he gathers enough strength to get up and make his way to the bathroom. When he returns, he sits down in the armchair to recover. Then he begins, slowly, to accumulate the things he will require for the day. Cell phone, 9mm, water, tissues, a novel, the Kyroshian text he's been translating, pens, paper, a wastebasket, and a blanket. When he has managed to transfer the lot of it to the living room, he stretches out on the couch, pulls the blanket over himself, and immediately falls asleep.

***

Harmony walks into Angel's office without knocking, as per usual. Angel looks up in irritation; everyone else ignores her.

"Wes called," she says, handing Angel his mug of blood and setting a stack of files down on the desk. "He said to tell you he has the flu and can't come in today."

"Poor Wes," Fred says, "Did he sound okay?"

"How should I know? He sounded like Wes. You know - tired, kinda cranky."

"That does sound like him," Gunn agrees, just as Spike growls, "Who wouldn't be, talking to that bint?"

"I heard that!" Harmony glares, but Spike is unrepentant.

"Can we please just start the meeting?" Angel grouses. "If Wesley isn't coming, there's no more reason to wait. Eve?"

Eve stands up and begins to outline Wolfram & Hart's newest Big Problem. Fred looks avid, Gunn jots notes, and the Host tries to provide comic relief. Spike ignores the whole thing, and, at an opportune moment, slips out.

So the Watcher had flu. Must be pretty bad if he wasn't gonna try to grin and bear it. Spike hasn't been sick in over a century - even viruses can't live in vampires - but he was around during bouts of flu for Buffy, Dawn, and even Willow. He remembers their misery vividly. And the Watcher's misery has been substantial of late, what with the Fatherbot and all. Spike isn't usually into the Florence Nightingale bit, but he does pity Wes. And he still owes him for that... incident... last week. 

***

*Six Days Earlier*

Wesley walks into his dark office and pauses, suddenly certain he's not alone. Putting his back to the door, he places one hand on his gun and reaches for the light switch with the other. The voice that comes out of the darkness stops him.

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't, mate. Sudden light, vamp senses - it'll give me a migraine to remember."

"Spike." Wes puts both hands down and crosses to his desk in the dark. "What are you doing in my office?"

"Trying to catch a few winks." Wes's eyes have adjusted, and he can make out Spike, stretched full-length on the couch, using his duster as a blanket. "I don't really have a place of my own yet."

"Ah. Look away," Wes says, turning on the small lamp on his desk. "And yet, I'm still curious - why are you here?"

Spike sits up, shrugs. "I don't know. Couldn't sleep in the Great Poof's office, and Gunn's just seemed kinda... sterile. I came in here, and you've got this big comfy couch, and the office smells all Watcherly." He pauses, then adds softly, "Like Giles's place. I used to stay there sometimes."

This is news to Wesley, but he lets it pass, asking instead, "Watcherly?"

"You know...old books and incense and Scotch. Just a dash of magic." He doesn't mention that both places also smelled of the men who inhabited them: musk and tea and the kind of shaving soap that comes in bowls. Wes's scent is sharper than Giles's, not just younger but subtly changed. Plastic instead of wax; gunpowder replacing the dust. Bitterness takes the place of worry. But they both smell weary, vaguely sorcerous, British. It doesn't occur to him to wonder when that replaced Dru's blood-death-roses as the scent of home.

"Hrmph." Wes isn't sure he likes that. He's got nothing against Rupert Giles, but even now he feels they have little in common. It's a belief he doesn't want to question very closely.

Spike stands up and looks around for his boots. Wes hesitates, then says, "I have some work to do, but if the lamp doesn't bother you, you're welcome to stay."

Spike looks at him, then sits back down. "If you're sure..."

"It's not a problem." In fact, Wes opens a book and picks up a file, seeming to drop Spike from his attention completely. After a moment, the vampire resumes his prone position, pulling the duster back over himself. He looks at the ex-Watcher, but Wes is intent on his work, so Spike closes his eyes and drifts back to sleep.

Wes has been working for about an hour when Spike starts to make noise. He tosses restlessly, knocking the coat to the floor, and begins to moan. The sound fades into a whimper, and finally into soft, nearly incoherent babble. All Wes can make out sounds like 'no, no, don't'. He thinks the vampire says 'please' at some point, but it's impossible to tell what he's asking for. Spike continues to toss and turn, and Wes gets up from his desk.

Spike wakes all at once, sitting bolt upright and staring around wildly. After a second he comes back to himself to find Wes sitting on the coffee table, looking at him steadily but incuriously. When Spike focuses on him, the man proffers a glass half-full of an amber liquid. Scotch. Spike takes it; as soon as he's sure the vampire won't drop it, Wes stands and turns away. 

As if he can feel Spike's questioning gaze on his back, Wes says mildly, "I have nightmares myself." His tone invites no curiosity, but doesn't discourage confidences: he is offering to listen, but not to share. Spike grunts acknowledgement, but says nothing, and Wes doesn't ask.

After a moment, when he's finished the Scotch, he looks up. "Thanks. I'll be off, then. Sorry about this."

"Don't be ridiculous." Wes speaks sharply. "You've already told me you've nowhere else to go, and the sun will be up in an hour. It's not as if you could take a stroll. Have some more Scotch and go back to sleep."

Startled, he says, "What? No, really. I'll... hang out in Angel's office, torment him when he comes in."

Wes retrieves his book from the desk and settles himself in the armchair next to the couch. He doesn't look up as he says, "As you wish. If you're worried about the nightmare returning, though, I'd say you've been awake long enough to break the loop. And the whisky should help as well."

Spike wants to be irritated at how well the man reads him, but he's tired enough to be grateful. And to ask a favor. As he stretches out again, he asks, "Will you...?"

The Watcher apparently has infinite patience with children and soul-having fools. He doesn't make Spike meet his gaze as he says, "I'll be right here."

When Spike wakes, peacefully this time, he's covered with a soft blanket, and all the blinds are closed. His duster hangs from a peg on the open cabinet door, and his boots sit neatly paired under it. Wes is nowhere in sight, and the Scotch and glasses have disappeared from the coffee table. In their place is a note, which reads only 'good morning'. The Watcher has punctuated it with a question mark.

***

Yeah. He definitely owes Wes, especially considering the man completely failed to mention the whole thing to Angel. His mind made up, Spike takes the elevator down to the typing pool. He finds the secretary he's been cultivating lately, and gives her his most charming smile. "Good morning, pet. Got a minute?"

She smiles back. "Two, for you."

"I need you to get me some things."

"What kind of things?"

He ticks it off on his fingers as he thinks of it. "Let's see... a gallon of orange juice, a quart of soup, a bag of chamomile tea, a bottle of aspirin, and some of that herbal remedy from Madame Xi's in Chinatown."

Spike's attractiveness is undeniable, but the girl isn't stupid. She raises an eyebrow as his list lengthens, and when he finishes, asks, "And you'll be paying for this how?"

"Let's just say Angel wanted to send his Head of Mystic Affairs a get-well package. Charge it to his expense account."

The girl considers it for a moment. A typist at her level can't actually authorize purchasing things on Angel's account, but she knows how to get around that. The question is, does she want to? Hedging, she asks, "Is that true?" If Spike lies to her, there's always a slim possibility of blaming it all on him later...

Spike grins. "No." He smiles into her eyes, one hip resting on her desk, legs splayed carelessly open. She sighs in resignation, and his grin widens.

"What kind of soup?"

***

Wes wakes feeling even worse than the first time. All of his joints seem to ache individually, and his hands tremble despite his best efforts to hold them still. His head is throbbing in time to his heartbeat, and he feels feverish and sweaty. The worst part, however, is that while he's exhausted enough to make reaching for his water glass an effort, he can't stop moving. His toes twitch, his hands shake, his hips resettle themselves constantly - all of their own accord. Even when he occasionally hits a comfortable position, he can't maintain it for more than a minute. Finally, desperate, he closes his eyes and slows his breathing, trying to meditate.

The trance state escapes him - uncontrollably twitching toes are not conducive to deep calm - but the silence allows him to hear the soft footsteps outside his door, just before a key slides into the lock. Wes hasn't given anyone a key. His eyes snap open and he sits up too quickly, blinking away the blackness that threatens to drown his vision. Then he picks up the 9mm, flips off the safety, and levels it at the door. His hand is still trembling, but the hollow-point bullets in the clip will stop anything short of an elephant, no matter where he hits it.

The door swings inward to reveal Spike, a large paper bag in his arms. The vampire stops, still on the other side of the threshold, and eyes the gun with amusement. Wes lowers it, putting it back on the table.

"Spike. What are you doing here?"

Spike ignores the question. "Can I come in?"

"No. Why are you here?"

"I have soup," he wheedles.

"No. Why?"

Switching tactics, Spike says, "Look, I came here to do you a favor. But your suspicion wounds me." At Wes's disbelieving snort, he adds, "Let me in, or I'll stand here all day and annoy you."

"I could shoot you." He says it experimentally, rather than with menace.

"If you've got what I think you've got, the recoil'll give you a headache like you wouldn't believe." He pauses. "Plus your neighbors will probably call the police."

Wes shakes his head wearily. "Magical soundproofing." He sighs; it ends in a cough that hurts his head. "Oh, all right. I invite you in."

"Finally." Spike comes in, shutting the door behind him. He crosses to the kitchen and begins unpacking the bag. "So, how do you feel?"

"Like someone is applying small electric charges to my pulse points at random intervals."

Spike blinks. "Oh. Right." He pauses. "D'you know, I saw something like that once? Thought the bloke would shake himself to bits, he was twitching so hard. If it's any consolation, you don't look near as bad as he did."

"Yes, thank you. I feel entirely cured. Now you can go." Wes closes his eyes again and lays his head back on the pillow. Spike ignores this last, and begins rattling things around in the kitchen. Wes sighs. "Spike. Inasmuch as you claim to have come to provide succor, forgive me for asking - *what the bloody hell are you doing?*"

"Making tea," comes the chipper reply.

Wes ruminates on the joys of influenza, headache, and inexhaustible vampires who didn't know when to go away. Then he sighs again. "What kind of tea?"

"Chamomile. D'you want some soup now, or should I put it in the fridge for later?"

Still wary, Wes asks, "What kind of soup is it?"

"Minestrone."

Minestrone? Who brought minestrone to an invalid? On the other hand, he had woken suddenly ravenous, and it was here. And he did *like* minestrone. Forcing himself to be gracious, he says, "Soup would be lovely, thank you."

Spike comes out of the kitchen balancing a mug of tea, a bowl of soup, and a little green bottle. He sets it all on the table, then goes back for a spoon and a napkin. He sits on the couch by Wesley's knees and hands him the soup. Wes sits up carefully and applies himself to it. Spike watches him.

When Wes looks up, Spike takes the bowl and hands him the tea, again watching for signs he wants to switch back. Wes finishes lunch in this manner; after, Spike clears away the detritus and Wes tries to compose himself for sleep.

He feels cold, and the twitching has returned with a vengeance. His aches and pains of the morning seem to have settled onto a spot at the base of his spine, making it impossible to lie comfortably. He's trying in vain to ignore it, closing his eyes and breathing deeply, when Spike returns with a glass of orange juice and a bottle of ibuprofen. He sits on the couch and leans forward to lay a cool hand on Wes's forehead.

Instinctively, the man arches into his hand and moans softly. Wes's eyes fly open in embarrassment, but there is no mockery on the vampire's face. "Sorry," he says anyway.

"You're sick. Don't worry about it." Spike brushes it aside, but it fact he's surprised at his own reaction. Wes's face is flushed, he's radiating heat, and the soft sound he made went straight to Spike's groin. He hopes the man is too caught up in his own concerns to notice his sudden hard-on.

It's a safe bet. Wes closes his eyes again, but can't keep still. Defeated, he looks up at Spike, seated by his hip, and sighs.

Spike quirks an eyebrow. "Something wrong?"

Wes closes his mouth on the automatic 'why do you care?' and instead admits, "There's this deep ache at the base of my spine. I can't seem to get comfortable."

Spike contemplates the man. He doesn't know if it's the Watcher, or the situation, or what, but he's getting more and more turned on. He decides to get a little more hands-on.

"Here. Slide down a little." Wes looks askance at him, but the vampire overrides him. "Just go with it. It'll help you sleep." The man gives up and lets Spike position him. Until Spike pushes aside the blanket and pulls down Wes's pants. Cool air hits Wes's most sensitive area and he gasps. "What are you - " He trails off into a strangled moan as Spike grasps his cock in one hand, stroking gently until the organ begins to stand up and fill with blood. Then he bends and takes it into his mouth.

Wes stares down at the platinum-blond head between his legs. He feels he should have questions, but he can't seem to think of what they are. And then Spike brings his hands into the act, and Wes can't think at all. As the cool mouth sucks and licks, he feels the orgasm begin to build at the small of his back, just where the ache in his body is worst. For a moment the pleasure cancels out the pain; then, the sensations combine with such intensity that he almost screams. Grasping Spike's hair, he pulls sharply to get his attention; when the vampire looks up, he gasps, "No. Stop. It's too much."

Spike meets his eyes for a moment, then reaches up and takes the man's hand out of his hair. Keeping it in his own, he goes back to work on Wes, taking him deep down his throat and using his free hand to squeeze the man's sac. Wes feels the pain and pleasure compact into a single point; then they seem to arc *through* him as he comes in Spike's mouth. He collapses back into the couch, exhausted and thankfully limp, realizing he's still crushing Spike's hand. He lets go.

Spike says nothing, only flexing his hand a little before using it to put Wes's pants back on. When the man is covered up, he asks, "Better?"

"Much, actually. Although... suddenly very tired."

Spike gives him the ghost of a grin. "You are a sick man. Come on; I'll help you over to the bed." He slides an arm under Wes and stands up slowly. He walks them carefully across the room, letting the man lean heavily on him. He could just carry him, but he suspects Wes wouldn't appreciate it.

He sits Wes on the edge of the bed and lets him situate himself while Spike returns to the living room to fetch the water and the little bottles. He puts it all on the nightstand. "Here, take a couple of these and a swig of this."

Wes examines the labels and then does so. He holds up the green bottle and says, "Thank you. This should considerably shorten the duration of my illness."

"Think nothing of it," Spike says with a flourish, though his underlying tone is serious.

Wes looks him in the eye, steadily. "No. Thank you, Spike. Not just for this," indicating the bottle, "or for this," making a vague gesture toward his hips, "but for everything. I can't say I quite understand what's motivating your altruism, but I'm grateful, and I'm in your debt."

Spike walks toward the door, but pauses before going through it. "No, you aren't. I'd say we're even. A favor for a favor - doesn't have to be the same kind."

He's gone before Wes quite realizes what he's talking about.


End file.
